A Midwinter Night's Dream
by BlvdofWritingDreams23
Summary: Arthur knew, from the moment Alfred said "Irish", that agreeing would be a bad idea, but still he did, and to this day he still doesn't know what made him say yes, only that the decision changed his life that night. Part satire, somewhat fable, a little bit tribute, a teensy bit genuine, but definitely a Christmas story. (Oneshot.)


Arthur knew, from the moment Alfred said "Irish", that agreeing would be a bad idea, but still he did, and to this day he still doesn't know what made him say yes, only that the decision changed his life that night.

You see, our story begins with a song—a song that would have otherwise been unremarkable…

"No—no way. Tell me you're not an Ed Sheeran fan."

Arthur fell silent. He hadn't realized he'd been humming, and when the song fully registered, the tips of his ears flushed. "It was on the radio this morning." That was true; apparently, "Galway Girl" was the number one song in America currently, a fact which Arthur, admittedly, took pride in. Yanks never seemed to tire of a delicate English accent singing to them.

Apparently, such an accent left a mark on The Englishman himself.

"How do you know it, then? A fan, are you?" he snipped, trying to deflect some of the attention and embarrassment. Thank the gods they were the only ones in the conference room. Everyone else had already left for the day, and it had become habit for Alfred and Arthur to use the time afterward to catch up on one another's lives—that is, whenever Arthur felt like sharing.

Alfred simply shrugged, impervious to targeted insults. "No. Just heard it on the radio." He glanced up through dark golden lashes, a playful smirk on his naturally tanned face.

In spite of himself, Arthur's cheeks flushed, and he narrowed his eyes in the hopes that Alfred took it as anger instead.

He did, and laughed about it. "I'm not making fun of you, Artie. I just think it's funny—"

"Humorous and insulting tend to run on the same line with you," Arthur muttered, scribbling a signature on a bill summary and flipping it over. On to the next piece of legislation, as if it ever had an end.

"Wonder where I get it from," Alfred riposted with a meaningful look, reminding him once again that this…attraction he'd fostered over the course of a year now was wrong. He should have been disturbed by the thought of being involved romantically with Alfred. He had raised the poor lad, after all; he had lost track of the number of times he'd told himself that. And yet…

They weren't related by blood. Their relationship was one they had designed themselves.

It could change.

No longer were they truly familial. They were…partners. Business, political, and cultural partners—yes, that was it.

"Hey, what're you doing tonight?"

Arthur roused himself from the reverie and looked down at the stack of bills and reforms in front of him. He hadn't absorbed anything he'd read; he'd have to restart from the beginning. Sighing inwardly, he flipped the last two pages full of tiny print back over and adjusted his reading glasses. "What you see right now."

"Cool, so you're free. Want to go out?"

Arthur's head swung up. They had gone out many times before, but those dinners were always on the last day of the assembly term, and they were _always_ drunken celebrations of a freedom from work, much like Americans on Friday nights.

"It's the middle of the term, Alfred."

"I never said we had to get drunk, just food and a little beer and a good time. There's this place called The Claddagh I wanna try out. It's an Irish pub with British-style food. How about it?" Alfred smiled—beamed, actually. Arthur was pleasantly surprised by the hope in his face, less so by another few words.

"An _Irish_ pub? You must be joking."

"Not if it's British cuisine."

"I retract that last statement—you _are_ joking _and_ insulting my food to boot! You hate my food."

"Not all of it!" Alfred said loudly, sounding almost petulant. "C'mon, the fish and chips we get from that booth on the Thames every time there's a row of meetings in London are amazing, and this place has _award-winning_ fish and chips. _Award-_ winning. Please, Artie? I don't really want to try it without you—honest."

Unmoved, Arthur almost snorted. "Why, so you can poke fun at my history? Brilliant reel-in there, chap."

Though Arthur wasn't looking at him, he heard the eye-roll in his response. "Yes, that's exactly why. If I wanted that, I would be asking to get drunk. No, I'm asking because you mentioned yesterday that you were missing your home food. I'm basically giving you the opportunity, now are you gonna take it or do you want to sulk in your hotel room until you fall asleep from working too much?" Alfred lifted his brow, a silent dare to contradict him, eyes flashing behind his glasses.

Arthur, who had lifted his head halfway through, stared, a little dumbstruck that Alfred had actually been listening yesterday given that the President had called repeatedly with questions—ones he should have already known the answers to—until it drove him mad.

Alfred wasn't an idiot. He might have been idealistic and quixotic to the point of recklessness and narcissism, but he was not stupid. Arthur had never considered him such, though he had hurled the word in his direction more than once.

He wanted to now—to stall in order to recover from shock—but those were not the words that came out.

"All right."

Alfred's serious demeanor split in a wide smile. "Really? Wow, I didn't think you'd cave so easily. Okay, well, I'll pick you up at seven." He rose, packing his briefcase, and their encore meeting was over. Just like that. He started for the open door, a spring in his step.

"Alfred."

He stopped in the doorway and turned with a raised brow.

Arthur allowed himself a small grin. "Don't call me Artie. You know I loathe that."

In the blink of an eye, Alfred's curiosity fell into guilt, and he reached up to scratch behind his ear. "Habit, sorry…Arthur." He offered a grin.

Arthur smirked as he disappeared into the hall.

He passed the first game—listening—with flying colors.

There was no way to tell what either of them were thinking as they prepared to meet. Alfred's mask is clever—cheerfulness and innocent idealism—but it has cracks, if you close enough. Arthur's had too much practice over the centuries to wear anything but a mask—even with himself. You see, for all their bluster and pride about where they stood within themselves, neither of them had any real courage when it came to being truthful. Being humble is difficult for our pair of old friends.

And one must know that to keep a good friendship, one cannot keep secrets.

Arthur leapt back from the curb as Alfred's rented red Impala squealed to a stop in front of him, parallel parking with a skill honed after decades of practice.

"How have you not received a speeding ticket?" Arthur griped as he folded his long legs into the car and buckled in. "You drive like a madman."

Alfred chuckled as if he was one. "Be polite—and honest—to the police. That's all I'm saying."

Arthur shook his head and relaxed—somewhat—into the leather, half-wishing he was driving. A shame his license wasn't valid in the States, so he settled instead for watching the street and the burgeoning neon lights of American pubs, shops, and restaurants blur by outside the chilled window. Within minutes, however, Alfred had driven them out of downtown and onto the outskirts—a highway lined with dry, wild grasses and industrial complexes old, rusting, and new. The homes along here weren't well tended to, either.

He frowned. "Wouldn't it be more practical to take the motorway?" Granted, Arthur didn't know Indianapolis well, but at its base nearly every American city was the same. One only had to find the right thread. "Where is this pub?"

"Plainfield, about half an hour west," he answered. "There's one downtown, but I think that one's more like a bar than a restaurant—where people go to wind down after work, you know. Besides, this one is next door to a Barnes."

"A what?"

"My chain bookstore—the big one, anyway. It's like Waterstones." Without looking away from the road, Alfred toggled the knobs on the central console, and warm air petered through the vents. Ascertaining that, he turned on the seat warmers, leaving Arthur to wonder if he'd noticed how tightly his arms were wrapped around his torso. He wore a wool coat with a sweater underneath, but no one had warned him that Midwestern winters were so bitter. Even his trousers, which held brilliantly in English winters, couldn't hold against the creeping chill numbing his thighs.

And to think he'd only been standing on the curb for three minutes.

"This pub is a chain, too, it sounds like," he concluded, holding his hands near the vent as though it were a fireplace. Technology baffled him sometimes, how easy it was to find warmth now—how easy it was to buy something, how quickly it could be consumed. Arthur remembered like it was yesterday the days when he had to trek across town in foot-deep snow merely to acquire the tea he preferred.

But then he remembered that he and Alfred—perhaps along with Germany—were the biggest embodiments of that change and wondered how he would ever catch up. Normally, he was adaptable, but he barely knew how to operate a smartphone beyond the basics.

Still, he wasn't complaining about the artificial warmth.

"Yep," Alfred confirmed, and that was all. No _but._ That was new.

"Why choose this one, then? I didn't think you read much," said Arthur conversationally. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Alfred reading simply because he enjoyed it.

He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road. A quick glance at the speedometer told Arthur they were going too fast, even for a commercial road.

"That's mostly because I don't have the time," Alfred answered, and it struck Arthur that his voice was different. After a mere two days, he'd already slipped into the slur of a Midwestern accent. Only slight traces of his Bostonian origins remained. Brilliant. "I've been reading more lately, though. Keepin' up with what's popular. It's a nice escape—almost like a TV in your head without the mind-numbing effects." He cast Arthur a brief smile, but his focus stayed on the car's movements. Surprising to everyone, he had actually become a responsible driver in the last decade—with others in the car, anyhow. Alone… Arthur didn't like to think about it. The fact that he was speeding right now didn't bode well for it.

That aside, Arthur was impressed—a remarkable feat in and of itself. Strike one for him—falling for it too easily. He scanned Alfred's face and posture, as if his sudden affinity for literature had somehow changed his appearance. The sun sinking low on the horizon threw shadows carelessly over his eyes, but the light made his hair seem more golden than the dirty wheat that fluorescent lighting only ever managed. But Arthur liked that dirty wheat color. Sunlight doused him in the nimbus of a god, and no one really wanted to be reminded of that. Especially not Arthur.

He took another moment to observe the leather jacket slung tightly around his shoulders before facing the windshield. "What sort of popular books are you reading?"

Alfred chewed the inside of his cheek, thinking. "The Divergent series was pretty good—you'd totally be a Candor, by the way. What else…some science fiction, some mystery—oh, and Leigh Bardugo! She's a fantastic writer, dude. She recently wrote this origin story for Wonder Woman that's fantastic, but I think you'd like her Six of Crows duology. Cryptic characters and gritty worlds, all that stuff."

Arthur hummed. "But no Harry Potter, still?"

Alfred snorted. "You kidding? I read those to cope with 9/11. The first three, obviously, since the others weren't out yet, but after _Deathly Hallows_ , man…" He clucked his tongue, shaking his head as he changed lanes. "Ten years later and I still can't believe she killed off Fred and Lupin. That was _so_ not fair. And Tonks! How the hell did she deserve to die?"

Arthur didn't answer. He blinked, trying not to let his astonishment show. He'd begun reading them about a year after their release—when the first movie was confirmed—and had tried many times, without success, to get Alfred to read them. He'd always claimed they were kids books—"way under my level". As if Arthur didn't read Shakespeare or Geoffrey Chaucer without any trouble at all.

When he found his voice, he said, "S – so which of the Houses—?"

"Do I really need to say it?" Alfred glanced sidelong at him, a hint of a smirk on his face.

Strike two for Arthur.

Crossing his arms, he scowled and turned to the window—even though, deep down, he'd always thought Alfred was a Gryffindor, too.

By the time they parked in the restaurant's lot, Arthur was uncomfortably warm; between the seat heater and the ventilation, it was almost a relief to step out into the cold.

Alfred had been wrong, to an extent. The Claddagh _was_ across the street from a bookshop, both of which formed part of the exterior line of a vast outdoor mall— _Metropolis_ , the sign had said. Alfred was wrong because Arthur felt sure he had picked this location for its connection to Superman, _not_ for the books he claimed to suddenly enjoy.

The pub's interior was far more spacious than any traditional pub would be, but he had to give the marketers, designers, and architects credit for attempting to make it seem closed off and intimate. He rather liked the forest green walls and dark wood columns, the enclosing shelves stuffed with books and empty Jameson whiskey bottles, though he scowled at the sight of two Irish flags hanging in the bar.

 _It's Irish, you dolt,_ Arthur thought as he slid off his coat and took a seat across from Alfred. _And he would give you hell if he knew you were here._

"Already thinking of what Ireland would say?" said Alfred, grinning cheekily.

Arthur glanced up from straightening his sweater and smoothing the wrinkles.

His friend's grin broadened, leaning one arm over the back of the chair. "You twitch a little when you're thinking about your brothers."

"Ah." Rather than answering, Arthur studied the drink list. "At least there's a decent selection of ales."

"Because Ireland would sympathize with this cause deeply," Alfred quipped, leaning across to look, too.

It wouldn't occur to Arthur until later that this was a date, but in those few moments they spent with their heads together, he felt helplessly exposed, like one glance at Alfred's lips—the bottom slightly fuller than the top, he knew—would ruin everything.

But then it was gone and Alfred was leaning back in his chair, smiling in the opposite direction. "Know what you want? 'Cause here comes the waitress."

Strike one for Alfred, ultimately. Finally.

Arthur tried to ignore how he flirted with her as she took their drink orders, focusing on the menu instead. He's like that with everyone, he told himself. It certainly wasn't to make him jealous. He noticed Alfred's frequent glances in his direction, but he thought it was more a request to join in than anything romantic.

No, thanks. Arthur had reservations about treating women crudely in any way—even miniscule flirting. Not to mention he didn't want to deal with the ogling when this woman realized he was English.

"This menu is incredibly Americanized," he said, once she had left.

"How can you tell?" Alfred asked, finally picking up his.

"The fact that they have to label the Irish fare—although the Scotch eggs and corned beef hash are nicely separated. What?" he added severely as Alfred smiled and shook his head.

"Nothing."

Arthur set down the menu. He knew what he wanted. "Tell me."

"It's just…" Alfred paused, thinking, and Arthur pursed his lips. _Choose your words carefully._ The thought conveyed was lost on him, however. "British cuisine is heartier than most Americans are used to, so any place that brands itself as British or Irish _has_ to have American food to stay in business." He shrugged. "Basic marketing to draw a wide audience."

Arthur managed to maintain an indifferent mask, but the lad had—once again—impressed him. Before long, he was going to end up on a bloody ship, working for American sailors instead of his own. "The alcohol could do that on its own."

"Not if you like British food and don't drink—wait." Alfred frowned, silently repeating the statement, perhaps to make sense of it, but Arthur was already chuckling.

"Even if that didn't degrade your argument, that's an impossible match. I sincerely doubt there isn't a soul older than eighteen in Britain who doesn't drink, and even that number is fraudulent."

Alfred rolled his eyes but was spared from making another contradictory argument by the arrival of their drinks.

"Ready to order, fellas?" said the kind, plump waitress with a smile. _Lads, that's what she should've said_ , but Arthur swallowed the critique. "Shepherd's pie, please."

"Fish 'n chips for me," Alfred added, with his winning smile.

If the woman was moved, she didn't show it. Probably because her eyes were on the order pad and not him. "Both good choices. The fish 'n chips comes with French fries, is that okay? Or would you like to substitute with a side at the bottom of the menu?"

 _Blimey_. Fish and chips without the _chips_? This wasn't even British anymore.

Arthur almost said it—thank the gods of propriety he didn't—but the offense must have shown on his face, because Alfred's amusement leaked through his answer. "Fries are fine. Wouldn't have 'em any other way."

The waitress nodded and swept away with their menus.

Alfred sputtered a laugh. "Your face was priceless!"

"Shut it," Arthur groused from behind the pint.

Naturally, he didn't. "Call me a git all you want, but that's just how it is here! Variety is just a part of life for these people—"

"It's a luxury and you're lucky to have it," Arthur snapped, although he knew his people weren't much worse off in that regard. Where did he think Alfred got it from?

The thought made him angry enough to gulp the ale. "You and all your bloody wealth," he added.

That wiped the smile off Alfred's face, and with it fled the expectation that he couldn't care less about targeted insults. His silence was almost alarming as he sat back in the creaking chair, forming a bubble between their table and the loosely chattering pub-goers.

"Sometimes I wonder why I even bother trying to explain," he said quietly, turning the glass in his fingers.

Strike three. Arthur.

It had been a rough couple of years for the pair of them. Arthur, a disastrous EU referendum and suffering negotiations; Alfred, a tawdry election campaign with an even worse outcome; and with at least a dozen domestic terror attacks between them, it was beginning to look as though they had only each other to lean on.

There had been worse, of course. There had been years filled with war and fighting and too much bloodshed, but even domestic issues take their toll when you become the laughing stock of the world. None of that stopped Alfred, however, from finding ways to pretend this wasn't true. To pretend, in the face of all this, that he was still the overwrought leader of the world taking care of his friends and allies.

Personally, Arthur was relieved to finally be stepping down. Three hundred years—or more, depending on perspective—was more than enough time at the top, particularly so for him given all that he did within the allotted time, and although he wasn't ecstatic about the potential successors, he was privately pleased that Alfred was, too. If it had been his choice, being world leader was never a burden Arthur would have bestowed upon him, regardless of their history. It was remarkable that the weight hadn't crushed him…or his spirit.

As Arthur was doing right now.

He had crossed a line, and a hypocritical one at that, as he picked the lint from his old cashmere sweater. Alfred was even paying for the meal, and he was being very ungrateful. Thus, in estranged silence they sat and drank until their meals arrived, and by then Alfred had moved on.

"They weren't kidding about award-winning, dude. You have to try this."

Arthur glanced up from the spoon he was digging into the shepherd's pie. "Perhaps a piece that isn't dripping in Tartar sauce."

Alfred ate the proffered bite and cut another, holding it out plain, but when Arthur went to take the utensil from him, he jerked it back. "This fork is not leaving my fingers."

"How am I supposed to eat it, then? Bite it off?"

"Um, yeah? I know you won't use your fingers."

Arthur stared. "We're in public, and this isn't a date." _Isn't it, though?_ He pushed the thought away before it could come to full fruition.

There was a bewildered pause before Alfred's gaze dulled, and he sighed. "Do you want a bite or not? My arm's getting tired."

"You were the one who wanted me to try it," Arthur grumbled, but he leaned forward and slid the cod off the fork with his teeth. He did it quickly, jerking back and looking around to ascertain no one saw—not to mention how well he knew his face would flush if he dared look at Alfred.

"You didn't even taste it."

Swallowing, Arthur forced himself to hold Alfred's gaze a moment before straightening the cloth napkin on his lap. "Yes, I did."

Shaking his head, Alfred cut another piece and held it out. "Try not to let your pride get in the way this time."

Sure thing. "I don't want another bite. One is enough." And to prove his point, Arthur dug the spoon into the piping hot stew.

"Last one didn't count."

The spoon clanged against the side of the bowl. "Yes, it did, and I— _aargh_ , fine," he growled, subjecting himself to embarrassment _yet_ again by taking it. He didn't feel like arguing anymore, and this time his cheeks really did flush—from his ears to his nose—as the fried cod melted on his tongue. He looked up.

Alfred was watching him, a triumphant smirk on his face. "Good, isn't it?"

Was it possible to strike out four times? If one of them were cheating, he supposed.

Arthur ducked his head to the pie. "I see what you mean."

Alfred chuckled.

Their banter resumed once the second round of drinks came along; in the alcohol realm, that was as far as they drank. Two ales were enough to loosen Arthur up and let him enjoy the atmosphere, but not enough to inebriate him. The only other time Arthur grew annoyed during dinner was when Alfred insisted on taking pictures of him with Ireland's flag at his back, but rather than yell, he simply flipped the camera off.

From there, he let Alfred talk him into splitting a bread pudding, and then they were walking briskly across the street, towards the warm luminescence of the bookshop.

"What sort of novels do you like? I don't remember," said Alfred as they perused the shelves of the science fiction section. They had a bet: whoever said "book" first had to buy one for the winner, regardless of cost.

"That's because the only stories you ever heard were my own," Arthur remarked, replacing one Civil War-era steampunk by Cherie Priest on the shelf. He could have been harsher, said that the reason Alfred didn't know was because he'd never cared, but he felt content and warm for the first time in years, filled with a pleasantness that curled up to sleep in his bones, and Alfred's voice was just throaty and interested enough to make him want to be nice.

"So educate me," he quipped, and stuffed his hands in his jean pockets, leaning against the shelf and giving Arthur his full attention.

He hesitated only briefly, skimming his fingertips over titles by one Seanan McGuire. Unusual name. " _Jane Eyre_ is one of my favorites."

Alfred's eyebrows shot into his hair. "No way, that b—" He caught himself as Arthur's eyes darted over, losing their glassy contentment in favor of sharp clarity. Alfred cleared his throat and corrected, "That one? That's the last thing I expected."

"Then you clearly don't expect much from me."

Alfred pouted. "That's not true. I've never thought you weren't smart—you're brilliant, actually. I just thought something like _1984_ would have been more your style."

Arthur hummed, deciding _why the hell not_ and pulling a Seanan McGuire from the shelf. Oh, and it's about the Fae—wonderful. "Dystopian literature is a bit depressing."

"And _Jane Eyre_ 's not?" said Alfred credulously.

Sighing, Arthur fixed him with a mock-stern look. "Have you actually read it? It's about a woman finding herself and her independence in a time when such was thought of as spinster-like and disgraceful. It's bold, if you ask me, not depressing."

"Good thing I'm not, I guess," Alfred muttered, turning away, and then cackled. "Hey Arthur, I found your favorite singer."

He looked up just as Alfred lifted from a promotion stand a variegated blue vinyl with an enormous division sign slapped on it and groaned. "I sing that song once and—"

"Relax, I'm only joking," Alfred laughed, returning it. "Man, even when you're loose you're still uptight. How does that even work?"

Arthur spared him any comeback with a glare and went back to the novel synopsis.

Alfred left him to it, disappearing for a short while. When he came back, Arthur was halfway through the third chapter, trying to decide if he liked the paperback enough to buy it.

"You know, there's this manga Kiku keeps saying you'd like— _Kuroshitsuji_ or— _Black Butler!_ There it is!" Alfred leapt for the shelf behind Arthur, sliding his prize out in one deft movement. "I guess it's about this kid who makes a contract with a demon, and they solve weird cases in Victorian England." He shrugged, glancing at the black-clad butler on the cover and holding it out.

Arthur accepted the manga and turned it with care, as if it were a centuries-old document in his hands, though his nose curled at the lithe figure with his sly smile. "And he thought I would like this, why?"

"It's Japan. When it comes to manga, does he need a reason?"

 _Fair enough._ Arthur arched the novel in his palm and let the black, white and grey pages soar past, revealing intricately-detailed strips and English dialogue. He knew from experience that Japanese texts read right to left, but…

"What exactly is a manga?"

Alfred didn't miss a beat. "It's like a Japanese comic book— _dammit!"_ He screeched his curse, loud enough that it echoed, and Arthur had time to twist his mouth in a triumphant smirk before it died.

He may have had four strikes, but Alfred lost the bet.

"You did that on purpose," he hissed, though there was a smile on his rosy-cheeked face, and his eyes glittered like sunlight on an ocean.

Arthur lifted and dropped one shoulder nonchalantly, returning the manga to its place. "Perhaps. I'll take this." And, handing him the Seanan McGuire, he about-faced for the checkout counter. In his opinion, Alfred was fortunate he wasn't making him pay for the boxed set of Harry Potter whose spines formed Hogwarts that he saw as they came in.

Alfred's member discount dropped the price even lower, and then they were back out in the cold, fallen night. The sky churned eastward with the puffiness of candy-floss, the deep hue of smoke and starless. That left the artificial light cast by the streetlamps as the moon source and the faint music playing farther inside the strip's main boulevard—"Galway Girl", Arthur realized. How ironic. He sighed.

This was it. Only a short ride to the hotel, and then…work. The same life with the same people, the same interactions. Tonight had indeed been a change from their usual routine, and it was a nice one. He wanted to do it again, but he also didn't want this to end.

This is the conundrum that so often faces their kind: time is limitless, and so they forget to cherish every moment—until it approaches them and asks, humbly, what they really want. Time, whom mortals call too short or too long but never simply _there,_ never allowed to exist as anything but villainy, who bears allegiance to no man, not even the immortal. Time does not ask them what they want to remember, but how they want to live.

When you give your answer, children, Time will only ask that you accept the inevitable, and take the chances given to you. But when the inevitable does not exist, it must take the time to ask.

And when they give _their_ answer, it will whisper in your ear…

"Snow's coming," Arthur says quietly, breathing deeply. "I can smell it in the air."

"How, it's frozen water." But Alfred's voice is quiet, too, listening to the breeze biting their cheeks.

Arthur's eyes are closed, but he pops one open for a moment to see him staring at the sky, his expression the hopeful innocence of the small child he used to be…

He grins, sardonic and bittersweet. "After all these years, I thought you hated snow."

"I like it on Christmas."

It is only then that Arthur realizes the date: December twenty-fourth. Christmas Eve, which means—

"You knew we didn't have a meeting tomorrow when you asked me to dinner. Didn't you." It isn't a question, and yet his voice still manages to come out breathless, fogging in the frigid air before him.

He hears the grin in Alfred's stage-whisper. "All I really wanted for Christmas this year was a night with you—the real you, not the drunk or the boss. You know, the one who told me stories and put up with my crazy antics."

"Even the ones where it meant I had to clean up." Arthur tries desperately not to think of the idiosyncrasies of it all—their relationship. It overwhelms him too much, makes him want to give it up and stay alone. He doesn't want to think about that tonight, not when he'll be alone on Christmas anyhow.

 _C'est la vie._ Better to let live what will and kill what won't.

"Blimey, it crept up quick…" The weakness in his voice, how it almost breaks, shames him, and his brow furls, but his eyes stay firmly closed. Alfred's reaction is one he doesn't want to see, because he says nothing, you see, and his silence never fails to frighten Arthur more than his loud-mouthed responses.

Alfred says nothing, and under the whispering breeze Arthur swears he hears his heart crack. This is the real Arthur, and it is not what Alfred wants: lonely, miserable, far too inclined to pessimism for his own good. And, to think, this night was going so well…until his omnipresent demons decide to wake up from hibernation.

As if simply barraging his thoughts aren't enough, they have to make themselves physically known—through drink, through his masks, his defensive irritation. They have to be the shadow that collapses over the meager light of the streetlamp, pushes through Arthur's eyelids. They have to—

Kiss him with soft, wet lips, moving gently over his in a rare occurrence of asking permission.

Arthur opens his eyes to the first snow falling on Alfred's shoulders, clinging to his hair as he steps back, cheeks and nose and ears a rosy pink.

"I'm sorry," he says automatically. The words stun Arthur enough to give him a flashback—1942, apologizing for the rebellion, angry and hurt—but he is not that now as he scuffs his shoes on the concrete self-consciously. "You just sounded so heartbroken, and I didn't understand it, but I wanted to cheer you up 'cos we were having such a good evening, and that was the only thing I could think to do." He sucks in a breath and holds it, waiting for the yelling to begin, the admonishment, the berating that his actions were utterly unacceptable.

But all Arthur can manage is, "Doesn't it feel odd to you?"

He frowns, confused but relieved until the "it" dawns on him, and then he looks down. "Yeah, at first. But then, I've been fighting this feeling for…a while. The only conclusion I can make is that we're not blood, but you know all the best and worst things about me, so why not?"

Arthur's gaze narrows, the open hand he was extending pulling back. "Is that all? Because I know the best and worst? You know next to nothing about mine."

Alfred grins, genuinely. "Fair, but that's what a relationship's for, and—well, people always say I'm the pretty one, the sexy one, the…Adonis. I think that's more you than me, and one more."

Arthur, desperate to maintain his dignity, jerks his chin up and prays to whomever is listening that Alfred can't hear his broken heart pounding. He is not about to fall for a few pretty words and well-placed smiles. He's seen too much of that in his lifetime. "Which is?"

Stepping forward, Alfred takes his wrist and pulls him against his chest, wrapping an arm around his waist as if they're about to waltz. "The one who knows all my secrets. I can't just let you run off to someone else. That would be the end of me." He smirks.

Arthur quirks an eyebrow. "Telling me what I can and cannot do? You have no idea what I'm capable of."

The smirk flickers faintly with Alfred's one-shouldered shrug. "I have a pretty good idea."

Arthur rolls his eyes. He expected something more heartfelt; he should have known better. "You're a tosser."

Alfred's smirk grows. "And?"

"And 'reason becomes the marshal to my will and leads me to your eyes, where I o'erlook love's stories written in love's richest book.' "

Now Alfred's humor drops. Finally. He was growing weary of that arrogant little grin. "Are you quoting Shakespeare again? Geez, you know he's not my forte."

 _My turn._ "Precisely."

His shoulders slump, though his grip on Arthur's waist tightens, giving away how much he wants to go on. "Your point?" he deadpans.

Chuckling, Arthur takes his sweet time answering. "It means I'm not sentimental like you, so just kiss me again and I _might_ have something for you afterward." Despite his demand, Arthur takes the initiative, pressing his lips against Alfred's with a crooked grin. The plastic bag crinkles by his ear as he tangles both hands into Alfred's damp hair, so he drops it on the ground and carries on.

As the snow fell, the wind whipped, and other pedestrians stared at the two men kissing on the sidewalk, no one thought twice later about the strength it takes to be truthful, to take the risk of rejection by speaking from your heart.

This holiday, remember a love two people share with good tidings and high spirits. Search for it. The world is a big place, though it seems to be getting smaller, and there is only so much shame and hate it can take.

Sometimes, you see, even the people who hold us up need to be held.

Our story began with a song that is likely to fade away once its welcome is overstayed, but for our two friends, who are tied so deeply to the earth, who have seen war and bloodshed and cruelty, it led to something more.

It led to love, right when it was needed most.

* * *

Footnotes:

1\. "Galway Girl" actually was the number one song in the US around 4 November 2017.

2\. "Before long, he was going to end up on a bloody ship, working for American sailors instead of his own" refers to the British Royal Navy recruitment tactic of Impressment, which involved forcing men (often criminals) into the Navy by compulsion or kidnapping.

3\. I don't have a specific date in mind for when England officially became the "British Empire", but it's assumed that Elizabeth I was responsible for sowing the seeds of the Empire due to the patents she gave her "gentlemen adventurers"—aka pirates—to exploit Spain's colonial holdings in the New World, which eventually led to the English establishing their own colonies in the Caribbean and farther north, respectively. Three hundred years, from 2017, would put the date at 1717, a decade after the Act of Union united England, Wales and Scotland into Great Britain.

4\. If you have never read Seanan McGuire's books, they are _fabulous._ The one Arthur is looking at here is _Rosemary and Rue_ , the first novel in the October Daye series and almost certainly inspired by Shakespeare.

5\. The Claddagh is a real place in Indianapolis, and their fish and chips—as well as their bread pudding— _are_ award-winning. The restaurant itself takes its name from a symbol developed in fifteenth century Ireland (in Irish: _Chladaigh_ ), representing love, loyalty, and fidelity. Comprised of two hands holding a heart, which bears a crown, the idea may have been borrowed from a Roman fidelity ring—the Fede—and to this day is represented on wedding rings, though it can also be used as a symbol of friendship. It's Irish origin, by the way, comes from a village in Galway—hence, "Galway Girl".

Quote Source: _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ , Act two, scene two, lines 127-9


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